Jack stands on the corner,
a vague recollection bending his mind,
a woman, platinum blonde,
hourglass figure, black suede pumps,
Chanel red lips
and a waft of subtle expensive tuberose,
an incongruous detail
given her Eastern European accent;
he expected something
more obvious like Poison …
A wind picks up cigarette packets,
manically tosses them into the air,
dust motes dance a fandango with moths
in the penumbra of a fluorescent street light.
Blue and white lights strobe,
breaking the shadows, wailing,
then silence but for the sounds
of an urban night.
Two suits and a skirt slam
three doors gathering
around the John Doe
like buzzards,
one flashes a camera, over and over,
the other suit blathers on a phone
stabbing the air with his fingers.
Jack
stands mesmerised
by the crime scene tape unfolding,
melting his spine into the brick wall;
he rubs his new finger print whorls
over the unfired piece in his pocket,
again he looks at his contract,
he’s been handsomely paid
without any effort.
The skirt snaps on thin latex gloves,
prods at the ooze in the gaping hole
where the blood fell out
with cotton buds,
screwing them into cylinders,
carefully. She stands arching her back,
looking up and down the alley
for something or someone
out of place.
Jack watches her look
right through him…
The skirt spots a woman gawping in glee
with a dark pink collagen mouth,
thinks of a blown up rubber doll,
and wonders whose fantasy is that.
Jack walks away, invisibly.
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